Maybe I’m overdoing it
You know, I thought I was holding things together pretty well, considering. Sure, it’s been stressful, but I’m still standing. [Insert cheesy musical interlude here.] I wasn’t patting myself on the back, or anything, but I thought I was doing okay.
This morning, Otto got up before me, before his alarm, even, and I continued to lie in bed, dozing, until his alarm went off. And then I flopped my way over to his side of the bed and began beating about on his alarm clock, trying to figure out how to make it stop going WAH WAH WAH WAH. Nothing I did seemed to work. And Otto was in the bathroom. Finally—cursing and flailing—I turned on his lamp and with the added visibility continued pushing buttons and whacking his clock, and muttering about THIS DAMN CLOCK WON’T TURN OFF, which is where I was when he came out of the bathroom and pointed out that it was MY clock’s alarm that was going off.
Oh.
I think that summarizes my current mental state pretty well.
So, uh, maybe go on over to Off Our Chest today to read some musings on handwriting, written when I was a little more together, and a little less confused by complicated objects like alarm clocks.
And we all lived… um… after
Oh, hey. Sorry to leave you hanging for a week. I didn’t mean to, it just sort of… happened. It turns out that when my kid is in the hospital my level of functioning reverts to “barely alive” and I am a total delight to be around. Like, Otto will come home from work and say, “How was your day?” and I’ll blink at him and say, “I’m not sure.” Then he’ll say, “What’s for dinner?” and I’ll say, “Dinner?”
Actual conversation we had this week:
Me: Why did you marry me? Our life is a mess. I’m a mess.
Otto: Well you weren’t ALWAYS a mess. I assume eventually you’ll not be a mess again.
Me: *blinking*
Otto: Oh. Um. That’s not helping, is it?
Me: Not really.
Otto: Sorry. I mean, I LOVE YOU, that’s why!
Me: Uh huh.
Otto: Also, you’re pretty. So pretty!
Me: Shut up.
Otto is a lucky man. read more…
Words I hate
I hate the word “miasma,” which is meant to describe something unpleasant, so I guess it’s just doing its job. Still. Hate it.
I also hate the word “torsion,” which comes from having once had an ovarian torsion. (Pro tip: That really hurts.)
I have issues with the word “pretty,” even though I use it all the time. I just don’t think a single word that sounds so darn perky should be so loaded. And it is, in our society. I wrote about that today for Off Our Chests, as I’m seeing the legacy of female teenage inability to see clearly unfold in front of me.
But mostly, I hate the word “relapse.” Relapse can just go screw itself sideways, thanks. [Related: Chickie is back in the hospital. I am beating myself up for letting her do all she did this weekend… maybe the trip really was too much for her, maybe she was coming down with something and didn’t say anything because she wanted to go. Who knows. Moot, now, I guess.]
This weekend (not about feelings)
“Journaling is stupid,” Chickadee said to me last night, out of nowhere, as we were driving to pick up pizza for dinner.
I blinked at her. “Ummm,” I said, helpfully. “Don’t you have a diary you write in?”
“Yes, but that’s just it. It’s dumb. People keep telling me it’ll help to WRITE ABOUT MY FEELINGS and you know what? It doesn’t. It’s stupid. It just makes me dwell on the stuff I shouldn’t and I never feel better, after.”
“I feel better when I write about stuff,” I offered. Because it’s true. “But… maybe you’re just more of an action-item type. Maybe instead of writing about how you feel, you’d do better writing about what you want, or making a list of the very worst things that could happen, so you could see things are actually sort of okay.”
“No,” she said, resolute in her conviction, “I like to write. I love to write—stories and stuff. But when I try to write about me it either ends up being ‘Today I did this and this and this’ which is totally boring, or it’s ‘Today I hate everyone’ which is, you know, not really useful.” read more…
No slugs were harmed in this post
I cannot tell a lie: When it came time, at the end of yesterday’s adventure in the woods, to go around the circle and share what we were grateful for, I said I was grateful that no one had licked any slugs. When one of the guides shot me kind of a funny look, I added, “Um… at least as far as I’m aware…?” (I’m available for parties, people!)
At one point we came to a broad, shallow spot in a creek where there were lots of flat rocks rising up out of the middle of the water, and—being as how it’s the middle of February and, therefore, a chilly 76 degrees here in Global Warming Is A Liberal Myth Georgia—the kids were invited to remove their socks and shoes and go wading. Chickadee happily peeled off her footwear, rolled up her jeans, and began following the guide to the opposite bank. Monkey was slower to get his shoes and socks off, then struggled with rolling his pants up, then stepped into the water and promptly declared it too cold.
I would’ve marveled at this difference in my offspring, truly, had I not been so busy laughing myself silly over the fact that several of the other kids in our group had simply taken off their shoes and belly-flopped, full body, fully dressed, into the four available inches of water. read more…
Into the woods, again and again
It seems like we were just out in the wilderness with Hippie School, doing important things like licking slugs, but today it’s time to go do it again. (I am hoping we’re exploring a slug-free zone, today.)
The last time I wrote about going on one of these adventures with Hippie School, Chickadee was freshly home from the hospital, and I was sure we were finally coming out the end of a long, dark tunnel. It was the beginning of Better; it had to be.
I guess I can’t say it’s NOT Better. Frankly, hot sauce to the eyeballs is probably better than having a kid in the hospital. So yes, sure, it’s better. I guess I just wish it was MORE better. I wish it was ALL better. I’m ready for the times when we can say, “Remember when you were sick and everything sucked? And see how great it is that you aren’t, anymore?” That time will come, I think. It’s just taking its sweet time arriving. read more…
Game on
I’m still searching for that New Normal. Maybe I put it in the dryer and the universe mistook it for a sock? Stranger things have happened.
In the meantime, we’re rediscovering some simple pleasures here at home. The beds are unmade and the sink is overflowing with dishes and the laundry’s piling up, but we’ve got some games to play, man.
Come on over to Off Our Chests today and I’ll tell you about this one time at camp and why it’s been on my mind, lately.
After this, I’ll shut up about it
I believe the technical term for today is “post-show letdown.” The other technical term for today is “and now the shit hits the fan” or “every time an overworked parent takes some time to do something totally separate from her children there is later hell to pay.” Details! Call it whatever you want; Chickadee had a good most-of-a-week at school and came to the show twice and promptly became very ill again, and Monkey had to come home early from school today because it was just one of those days when he couldn’t pull it together.
Naturally, I am convinced that all of this is my fault. (I wouldn’t be me, otherwise. Right?)
In lieu of a real entry, I will instead offer you up this bootleg video which a pal of mine was kind enough to capture one night of the show. Didn’t make it out to see it? Now you can watch me swear a lot, anyway. Enjoy.
Worth it
I’ve been to hours of rehearsals and have missed hours of rehearsals. I’ve driven to rehearsal and wiped tears off my cheeks the whole way there because it was my only time alone to vent the frustration and sadness I was feeling over my oldest being sick and scared and beyond the fixing I used to be able to do with band-aids and boo-boo kisses.
I’ve laid awake at night while Otto gently snored next to me, my prayers for strength and patience and grace all tangled up with mental repetitions of my lines for the show—lines I could’ve easily learned in an afternoon back when I was in college, but which now eluded me or got twisted up on my tongue as my older, slower brain darted from one worry to the next. I stared at the ceiling in the dark and hoped I wouldn’t make a fool of myself; hoped I hadn’t made the wrong choice, staying with the show, even in the midst of everything else.
I apologized to my girl for leaving her so much, especially this last week. “I would’ve been mad at you if you dropped out,” she said, simply. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re doing it.” read more…
The secret ice cream society
Chickadee’s been home for a week and a half, has successfully managed two half-days at school (and is attempting the whole day today), and while life stubbornly refuses to stop or even slow down while we find our new normal, over here, I am rediscovering the healing power of frozen dairy confections.
The list of things I can control at this point would probably fit on a post-it, with room to spare. The list of things I CAN’T control (but desperately wish I could) is a lot longer. Go figure! On any given day, I sandwich small stints of actual work between doctors’ appointments and carpool and play rehearsal and just plain sitting down with the kids a lot more often than I did B.C. (that would be: Before Crisis), just because my priorities have shifted.
My sanity has remained loosely tethered on getting Chickadee to eat and gain weight. The doctors have to go do their thing, I get that; but I’m her Mama, and I can fatten her up. Right? Maybe? Looking at her will hurt less when she no longer looks like a strong wind might snap her in two? read more…